


Dolce follia

by whosAlana (EyeofOrion)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Will and Hannibal’s relationship is discussed and dissected (ha ha), but still left open to interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:37:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4808231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeofOrion/pseuds/whosAlana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the events of s3 e6 “Dolce”, in which Hannibal attempts to see inside Will’s mind – literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dolce follia

They are two sides of a coin, you see. Or a brain – two sides of a brain, two halves.

The left brain is the one that works in facts and logic, cause and effect, piecing ideas together to form a picture that makes  _sense_. The left brain looks at the events it sees and asks,  _how do these lead to one another?_  The left brain is sciences, and knows the world is made of things that are true.

The right brain is the one that works in creativity and expression, subjectivity and interpretation, forming ideas into pictures that evoke  _emotion_. The right brain looks at the events it sees and asks,  _how do these make you feel?_  The right brain is arts, and knows the world is made of things that are beautiful.

And that is why, when art is a crime scene, the left brain looks at the brush strokes not to see their intended beauty but to trace the hand that made them. And that is why, when a crime scene is art, the right brain looks at the work of the brutal hand and sees the brush strokes as the craft they are. And both of them look into the chaos and see an order of sorts.

But it is a myth that the left brain and the right brain are sovereign entities, as dichotomous and detached as nations separated by oceans. As anyone who knows about the world is aware, both of their roles are vital for the mind to be whole. As anyone who knows about the mind is aware, each hemisphere is more than capable of taking on the role of the other.

 

From this angle, his lips are a smooth pink leaf, the dip of his philtrum the only nick in the smooth line between lips and skin. There is such a narrow space between lips and skin that you can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins.

He leaks red, and that is almost pedestrian. They all leak red, and him more than most. But it is  _his_  red, and somehow him spilling it, right here before you, is something to be savoured.

Of all the things you have savoured and intend to savour, he is the most delectable.

 

There are cuts on his face, on the left side. His left; your right. When you sit parallel to him for the first time in too long – so long – your scars and his are like mirror images, still-red splatters from the wound that divided you. As if it were the distance – or perhaps the proximity – that had gouged them.

The left side of his head is still scarred, blunt scabs and scratches, and he looks at you with eyes full of emotion.  _It is not rational_ , he has told himself. Feelings that do not make sense – guilt that is not his; wants that are not in accordance with any moral compass; something  _else_ , something  _deep_  – seep throughout his mind, that has been addled and twisted and pulled and  _watched_ , and he is not the same anymore.  _I want. I feel. I love. This is not logic._

The right side of your head bears slit-smooth cuts, and you look at him and see him piece by piece.  _This is not how the picture should look_ , you berate yourself. The painting is not as it should be, and how you look does not reflect what your mind’s eye sees. You adhere –  _pander_  – to the necessities of a world that imposes limits on the illimitable, and it boxes you in. You are forced to comply with what is logical and not what you want.  _I fail. I break. I hate. This is not art._

 

Many years ago they used to cut holes in the skulls of those whose brains were on fire. They used to say that it was evil spirits, but now there are names for their afflictions. Now there are treatments. But some of the treatments are not so different. Sometimes, the communication between the hemispheres is irreparably wrong, a toxic relationship that incapacitates the whole mind. In those cases, there is nothing to be done but remove one of the halves.

When half a brain is removed, you know, the other half can pick up all the functions of a whole, and the empty half of the skull fills up with fluid. It can be done. The body lives on, and so does the mind. The skull only has to be opened up, and half hollowed out.

 

It seems like a very long time ago now that you washed his bloody hands in cool clean water, and it was a beginning. Now, when you are broken another person washes the blood from your palms and it is not him. That is not right. It is right, you think, that you are the one to carve a crimson line into his forehead. That you are the hand and brush behind the scar-sharp bloody flecks that serrate the scarlet edge of it, just like thorns.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from “[Dolce follia - Versione strumentale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXkp_gXNwiA)” - Ignazio Caracausi


End file.
